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Saturday, 29 August 2015

The Scribbler presents Part Five of the New Brunswick authors series with a 4Q Interview.

4Q is fortunate to have Gwen Martin as our featured artist this
month as we celebrate New Brunswick Authors. Gwen is much more than a writer.
At present she is also the Executive Director of the Writers’ Federation of New
Brunswick. She lives in Yoho, New Brunswick (I didn’t know where it was either
until I met Gwen). A lively and very positive lady, Gwen is a charm to be
around. Watch for her link below.

4Q: Please tell us how your work as the Executive Director for WFNB
came about and what you are up to.

GM: My relationship with WFNB has changed
over the years. I’ve been a member since the mid-1980s. For several months in
2009–10, I served as a funding consultant, which involved writing three grant
applications and getting to know the Federation’s inner workings. In June 2014
I became a WFNB director. When the then-executive director suddenly left in
October 2014, the other directors asked me to become interim ED. What with one
thing and another, I agreed to stay on until May 2016, by which time we will
have hired and mentored a new ED.

The answer to “what are you up to?” spans
three timeframes. The daily work involves answering numerous member emails,
encouraging members to renew, fielding organizational requests, book-keeping
non-stop, updating the website with member bios and news – and, of course,
producing our newsletter, InkSpot.

The medium-range work includes
organizing workshops and readings for the autumn, writing grant applications
for 2015–16, planning ahead for the 2015–16 writing competition and mentorship
program, fundraising (also nonstop)… and trying to boost membership through our
regional rep program. We also are about to launch a new section of our website
called TeensWrite…a place where we
publish short stories by young New Brunswick writers. I’m really excited about
that program.

We have several long-term goals. Top
of that list is our decision to launch the New Brunswick Book Awards, which will
happen in 2016. We already have a committee dedicated to planning and
fundraising for that long-awaited event.

4Q: What do you enjoy about writing and what have you recently
accomplished as an author?

GM: The most profound thing about
writing is that it can help you to receive ideas, analogies, images and linkages
between real or imagined people and events. I believe that, on the deepest
level, almost everything that ever happened or will happen is already out there
in some non-tangible form.

Thus, when we enter the writing zone
(or the zone of whatever is your passion … be it music, carpentry, car repair,
pottery, painting, farming), we are simply tapping into that dimension and
channeling the patterns or connections that already exist. By reflecting those
patterns through our stories or art or plumbing or carpentry, we create beauty
or a sense of meaning or both. It is all magic.

This sounds bizarre, but in concrete
terms, I know it happens. The best stories are ones that embody a narrative arc
with utterly believable people and events. We are transported beyond ourselves,
because the story is universal. Ironically, the things that move us the
most are the things that cause us to leave ourselves behind as we
unconsciously feel a sense of belonging to a larger pattern. That’s why good
ol’ Uncle Shakespeare has lasted for hundreds of years. He could do ‘universal’
like no one before or since, except maybe John Steinbeck.

I have accomplished nothing recently
as an author (unless you count grant proposals!), because the ED position takes
60 hours a week.

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

GM: The story that comes immediately
to mind is the time I decided, at age 11, to handle a canoe myself in a high
wind. One summer we visited a cabin on a wide, strong river that flowed
eastward for a quarter-mile before cascading over a dam. On this particular
day, Dad told me not to go canoeing, because the wind was too strong. I headed
out anyway. The wind caught the canoe bow and immediately torqued the boat
broadside so I could not control its direction. At the same time, the river
current carried me inexorably toward the dam. As I struggled to control the
canoe, I saw Dad at the end of the dock, watching. He kept watching as I
drifted downstream. I had to slowly inch my way forward in the canoe so I could
paddle from the mid-section and gain some directional control. Finally, after what
felt like hours, I reached land far along the shore, just before the dam. As I
gingerly hauled the canoe back over cobbles and sunken logs, I saw Dad in the
distance, still standing rigid on the dock. Only when I got within earshot did
he turn and leave. He never said a word about it, and neither did I.

4Q: You will be leaving the position of ED next year. What will Gwen
Martin be doing to fill her days in the future?

GM: Writing, hiking, playing my
piano, and spending time with my nearest and dearest who have been sorely
neglected since I became ED.

Sunday, 23 August 2015

Part four of an eight part series on authors from New Brunswick, Canada.

So pleased to have Lockard (Lockie) Young of Albert County, NB as a featured guest. I know you will enjoy this amusing tale that he is sharing with us this week. Lockie has appeared on the Scribbler many times. He is a published author and a terrific story teller. His links are below.Are You Sure by Lockie Young

My day got really bad right after I said “you’re
pretty sure?” Well, maybe if I start at the beginning.

It had been
a really crappy week at work. I was convinced that bitch from accounting was
trying to screw me over, again. For the second pay period in a row she ‘forgot’
to add my tips onto my paycheck. That meant that once again, come Monday
morning, I was going to have to submit for a second check to be cut just for my
special deposit. That’s what I called the extra money I made in tips, which I
usually moved into my savings account. I’m two special deposits behind now, and
I was counting on that extra cash for my haircut.

Doing a slow
burn I watched as the paper envelope was being gobbled by the slot in the ATM. I
withdrew twenty bucks that I couldn’t spare and that should have stayed the
hell in there. It was impossible however, to leave it there, because tomorrow
was haircut day. If I didn’t get a haircut at least once every four weeks, I
would take on the look of an Einstein impersonator with steel wool locks.

I’m the type
of person who thrives on order. I take pride in my appearance, and the fact
that I have never been late for an appointment, but that is only because I plan
everything. Like a game of chess in my head, I calculate for errors, for bad
weather, for rush hour traffic. I try to make a plan for every scenario, but
some things you just can’t plan for.

Saturday
morning arrived after a very dull Friday evening de-stressing in front of the
TV. The first day of the weekend poked its sunny head through my curtains, and
I smiled at my great good fortune. It was a beautiful bright day after all. Perhaps
I would walk to the barbershop today. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed,
and planted my feet firmly to greet the new day. My right foot landed into something
cold, soft, and slowly squishing between almost every toe. The unmistakeable
odor of Toby, the family fertilizer factory on four legs greeted my day and
encouraged my gorge to rise. I half ran half slid into the bathroom and dry
heaved over the cold porcelain of the toilet. Nice I thought as I raised my head from the bowl and saw the brown
swoosh style smear on the floor. Let’s just say my gorge rose several times
more while getting myself and the entire hallway cleaned all the way back to
the bedroom.

When the
coffee maker overflowed hot grounds all over the cupboard, and then that mess
pooled on the kitchen floor, I didn’t lose it like I thought I would. Even
after the toast caught fire and I threw the toaster into the kitchen sink, I
didn’t pick it back up and heave it through the glass patio door like I wanted
to. No sir. Maybe there were forces at work to discourage me today, I reasoned,
as I chuckled to myself.

“A pox on
you, Karma!” I shouted to the air, with fist raised in mock defiance of the
forces that be.

I’m thinking
that’s when I really got the bad MoJo going.

I left the
house, and didn’t even pick up the garbage can that I hit on the way out of the
driveway. Garbage day was four days from now. Why was the garbage can down by
the street?

I pondered
this question on the drive to the barbershop. The walk was cancelled, courtesy
of Toby, and no accidents happened on the way to the shop. I did have to pick
up the pace a little bit though. The oddest thing; there wasn’t a free parking
space within two blocks of the barber shop. I finally found a spot only to
discover the meter didn’t work but when I was getting back into the driver’s
seat the car in the space ahead of me pulled away.I nudged ahead quickly and threw the gear
shifter into park. I knew my luck was changing for the day, as I ran the rest
of the way to my ten o’clock.

I was
slightly out of breath when I skidded into the doorway at exactly nine fifty
nine a.m. My record was still intact. I looked around and asked the skinny kid
with the coke bottle glasses, “Where’s Walter?”

The young
lad looked up from his comic book. “Uncle Walt had to go to a funeral. His best
friend died, and so he asked me to take a few of his clients. You want a cut?”

This, this
was not good. This skinny runt would need a box to stand on to reach the back
of my neck.

“Well, you
see, Walt always does my hair. Are you even allowed to cut hair? I mean
legally?” I asked him, and almost laughed out loud at the size of the poor guys
eyes behind those glasses. How could he even see to cut friggin hair?

“Oh sure,
I’m licensed and everything, see?” He pointed to a square of heavy paper
propped up beside a tall glass jar containing blue fluid and several combs. I
squinted at the document and stammered, “The date on that diploma was last
month.”

“Highest
marks in the cut exam.” He motioned to the chair as he held the green striped
apron open. I looked at this stranger in the mirror with wide eyes and a half
scared look on his face and wearing my clothes, and I almost left. I scrunched
down in the barber’s chair, wondering if he was still going to be able to see
the top of my head. He grabbed a spray can from the counter.

“A little
lubrication,” He said as he sprayed the electric clippers. I swear he winked at
me.

“Look just a
little trim, okay.” I smiled nervously to geek boy’s reflection in the mirror.

“Whatever
you say, you’re the boss.” He said, as he fired up the clippers. As soon as the
razor hit the hair on the back of my head, it dug in like a snow blower digging
into a four foot drift. The motor started to make a funny noise as the first of
the pain registered. Junior yanked the shears away and a very large clump of
hair the same color as mine slowly swirled to the floor.

“Oh my god,
that must have been hairspray and not oil. I’m pretty sure I can fix that.” He
said looking at the back of my head, with his own tilted at a strange angle.

A stranger
using my voice said, “You’re pretty sure?”

I don’t
remember much after that. I think my arraignment is next week.

The End

Thanks again Lockie for entertaining us again with your witty stories. You can discover more about Mr. Young and his novels by visiting the links below.

Watch next week when the Scribbler presents a 4Q Interview with Gwen Martin of Yoho, New Brunswick. Gwen is an accomplished author as well as the Executive Director of the Writer's Federation of New Brunswick. A very charming and talented lady. Don't miss it.

Monday, 17 August 2015

Welcome to part three of the New Brunswick authors series for August and September.

As well as writing, Pierre Arsenault is also a freelance cartoonist. He resides in Moncton, NB. He is the author of two collections of short stories. The first - Dark Tales for a Dark Night was co-authored with Angella Jacob. His second is titled - Sleepless Nights.Pierre is sharing one of his short stories this week. You never know what will greet you when you journey out in the middle of the night.

Garnett
sat alone in an empty room. Its only content being a low-backed soft stool
which he now sat on and a weird oval table. The flat topped table had a
mushroom like shape and stem-like leg in its center. The entire room looked
like it was made of strange hard off-white plastic and yet it had some give to
it when Garnett pushed his fingers into it. He had awakened in this room with
no idea of how he had gotten here. Groggy at first, it took a while before he
noticed there were no exits. No doors. The walls were seamless as was the stool
and table. He couldn’t tell where they begun and the floor ended. It was as if
the entire room was made of a seamless plastic. With no visible vents, he
wondered how he was still breathing. Where was he? He remembered getting out of
bed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake his wife. The dogs were barking
and the cows were agitated. Something was wrong. Perhaps coyote but with their
four dogs roaming the farm, they had never had any predators come close before.
In the same blue chequered pyjama bottoms and white t-shirt he wore now, he had
wandered out onto the porch in his slippers with his large halogen flashlight.
Last year’s Christmas gift from the kids came in handy at times but he
appreciated it a lot at that very moment. He remembers seeing some of the cows
all huddled together against the fence. They were restless, milling about,
pushing and shoving to get as close to the fence as possible. He couldn’t see
the rest of the herd but he knew some were in the barn. He could hear them. The
rest were most likely towards the opposite side of the enclosure. The hairs had
stood up on the back of his neck and his arms. He could hear the dogs barking
but couldn’t see them. He remembered calling the dogs but they never came. He
remembered his sight becoming blurred and his head beginning to spin. The last
thing he recalled was removing his glasses and struggling to focus as he saw
the fast approaching ground as he passed out. Then darkness.

He
awoke sitting in the strange chair, but still groggy, he fell out of it and
quickly found himself on the cold floor. Dazed, he lay on the floor for a long
time. Although in this room, time felt irrelevant. No window to see if it was
day or night. Complete stillness at first. Until he regained his senses that
was and then his mind began to take over. What is this place? Why was he here?
His mind settled on the only logical thing he could think of. Aliens. He had
seen that television show where they explored what they claimed was proof that
aliens had visited Earth long ago. Although being a logical man, he never took
it seriously but he always thought the theories were fascinating. But he wasn’t
ready to meet one. This he thought as he got up and sat in the chair, leaning
on the table with his head resting on his arms. This fact was still running
through his mind as he heard a soft, subtle sound coming from before him. It
was the first sound he had heard that was not of his creation in the hours he
had been in this blank space. Confusion struck him until he saw a bulge forming
in the floor across the table from where he sat. The bulge rose almost as tall
as he before a seam appeared in it. When the bulge began opening, he could see
a pale pink flesh-like bulge emerging from it. What he soon realized was the
hairless head of the creature that was emerging before him. It took a moment
before he realized he was no longer breathing as he had held his breath the
entire time the man-like creature had emerged. It wasn’t green as he half
expected but a pale pink. It wore no clothes and had a soft glow about it. Its
slim face had very large oval eyes with large pitch-black pupils and silver
irises. It looked to have a slim, long mouth and what looked like nostrils even
though it had no nose. It had a thin body with thin neck, arms and legs. The
bulge in the floor receded leaving this new creature sitting in its own
seamless chair.

Was
he dreaming he wondered? Had he watched too much Ancient Aliens that it now
affected his sleep? Only for some reason he knew this was no dream. He could
now feel a sudden presence in his mind. The alien being tilted his head
slightly and seemed to smile softly as it gazed at Garnett.

[What
is your name, man from the water star?]

He
heard the alien speak but yet his mouth had not moved. He heard it but was it
really with his ears? It felt more like he heard him with his mind.

[No-No
you are not,] replied the alien using only his mind to communicate.

The
voice had a soft and soothing feeling to it that he couldn’t understand.

“Why
am I here? What do you want from me?” asked Garnett. He felt anger within him
but yet he couldn’t raise his voice even when he tried.

[Your
kind are dangerous, Garnett. Did you know that?]

“My
kind?” asked Garnett, knowing full well what the strange being meant.

[Your
kind fights each other for resources you should all be sharing. You all inhabit
the same water based star,] said the alien. [Yet, you fight for things that
belong to none of you.]

“Yes.
Yes, I suppose some of us do,” replied Garnett.

[Some,]
replied the alien. [You kill each other because you like different things.]

“I
don’t understand what you want?” replied Garnett.

[My
kind wants to destroy your kind,] replied the alien as his head tilted even
more as it watched its prisoner with curiosity. As if he waited for a reaction.

“Why?”
asked Garnett.

[My
kind believes your kind to be a danger to all the others in what you would call
the solar system.]

Garnett
was a simple farmer but was no fool. He held degrees

in veterinary medicine and
always had a fascination for politics until he had come to the conclusion that
they were all corrupt. At least that was what he now believed after watching
his fellow farmers struggle to stay in business. Not having to call in
expensive vets to look after his dairy and beef cows saved his farm a lot of
money and helped him stay in business. He was smart in many ways and knew the
alien was right.

“You
plan to invade us?”

[No
need,] replied the alien creature as he straightened his head and squinted a
little. [We can destroy your world from far away.]

“How?”
asked Garnett.

[Your
star cannot sustain life without water. We would simply take it all away.]

Garnett
sat still for a moment looking down at his hands as they rung at each other. He
fiddled with his wedding ring like he often did when deep in thought.

“Have
you done this before?” Garnett asked while still looking down at the table.
Something told him they had and they were not bluffing.

[Yes,]
replied the alien as his eyes grew even wider. [Yes, we have had to destroy
three stars before. But not before trying to save them.]

“I
don’t understand,” replied Garnett. “Save them how?”

[We
visit stars. We try and help the ones who live there. Teach them peace.]

“But
yet you destroyed three?” asked Garnett.

[Yes.
We had to. They had begun to venture out in the solar system with weapons of
war.]

Garnett
stood up and walked away from the table, staring at a blank wall as he spoke.

“You
destroyed them before they could destroy you.”

[Yes.
They would have attacked all other stars with life, fearing what they don’t
understand.]

[Your
kind is on the verge of venturing out from your star. We can’t let you do that.
You are too dangerous.]

Garnett
turned to face the alien. “But if you destroy our world. Without trying to
negotiate peace first, doesn’t that make you even worse than us?”

[As
I said before, we have tried. We have sent ambassadors of peace to your star.
They were all killed by your kind.]

Garnett
slowly made his way to the table and sat down again.

“That’s
a lie,” he said even though somehow he knew it wasn’t. “There would be evidence
of such a thing happening and there isn’t.”

[Actually
there is much evidence but your kind refuses to see it. Your kind always grows
fearful, always killing what your kind cannot comprehend. We left you alone for
thousands of your years, no longer interfering in your affairs only to watch
you become worse with time.]

“It's
human nature,” replied Garnett. “Maybe you should kill us all,” he said as he
looked down at the table again while fiddling with his wedding ring again.
“Just don’t kill my Emma. My Sadie and my Danny.”

The
creature knew this man-creature spoke of his family. They always did. These
water-star creatures who call themselves humans always begged to save the ones
they loved. Not for the others of his star that they did not know. Not at first
anyway. The creature saw nothing different or special in this one who called
himself Garnett.

[The
star will be destroyed and all who are on it,] replied the alien.

“Then
bring me back before you do so I can say goodbye,” said Garnett as a tear ran
down his face. He wiped it away as if ashamed to show weakness before this
God-awful being.

[We
cannot bring you back just yet,] said the alien creature.

Garnett
bowed down his head as a feeling of helplessness washed over him as he broke
down. He sobbed as the creature watched in curiosity. Garnett looked up before
he spoke. His voice filled with so much emotion that it cracked.

“You
can’t destroy us now. Danny just got accepted to veterinary college and Sadie
is starting high school.”

[Your
kind is destined for destruction,] replied the alien. [Our task is to prevent
you from destroying others in what you call the solar system.]

“Bring
me back then,” replied Garnett. “I want to be destroyed with the rest of my
kind.”

[Why?]
asked the alien. [Why would you desire your own destruction?] The alien tilted
his head to the side and had that squint of what Garnett could only guess was
curiosity.

“I
don’t belong here,” said a frustrated Garnett. For the first time he felt the
ability to raise his voice in anger. “I want to die with my family.”

The
alien said nothing as he watched the human lower his head and shed more tears.
He waited a moment as Garnett composed himself somewhat.

[What
if you could save your family? What if you could save your star?]

“How?”
asked Garnett as tears flowed steadily.

The
alien turned its attention away from Garnett for the first time and looked
towards the blank wall to his right. Garnett looked at the blank wall with
curiosity before realizing that the alien was most likely conversing with
another one of his kind outside of this off-white plastic prison.

Before
Garnett, a slit appeared in the table. From it, slowly emerging was what looked
to Garnett like a small off-white shot glass filled to the brim with a dark
blue powder. Once it was on the table, the slit vanished as if it had never
been.

[Some
of my kind believes that some of yours have begun a sort of revolution. That
your kind could possibly know peace someday.]

[We
brought you here to offer you a chance to save your star. My kind wants to wait
another year before deciding whether or not to destroy your star.]

“A
year?” asked Garnett.

[One
of our years.] The alien looked down at the glass on the table as if thinking
for the first time since they had begun the conversation. [I believe that would
be more than three hundred of your star years.]

Garnett
wiped his tear-stained face with the sleeve of his t-shirt but said nothing.

[You
need only drink the blue fluid to save your star.]

Garnett
looked at the blue powder in the plastic glass. “What is it?”

[It
is your sacrifice,] replied the alien in a soft tone. [Your demise will prove
your kind can be unselfish. It is required so those on your star can live.]

Garnett
reached for the glass but paused just before he touched it. “You’re telling me
if I eat this powder shit that you won’t destroy earth?”

[If
you make that sacrifice then we will spare your star from destruction, yes.]

“But
this will kill me?”

[Yes!]

“How
do I know you will not destroy us anyway?” Garnett picked up the glass and watched
as the powder turned into a liquid before his very eyes. The cup was filled to
the brim, yet when he tilted it slightly the liquid remained flush to the brim,
not spilling an ounce.

[Your
choice is to die along with them or for them,] replied the alien. [There are no
other choices.]

Garnett
took a deep breath and hoisted the glass as if making a toast at a wedding. “My gift to mankind then. To my
Sadie, Danny and Emma.”

Tears
flowed as he placed the cup to his lips and drank the dark blue liquid in one
gulp. He set the cup down and opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t.
The whites of his eyes were the first to turn a dark blue while the rest of him
followed. He looked at his hands as they turned a dark shade of blue. The
creature reached across the table and placed a long pale pink finger in
Garnett’s head as if his flesh was now semi liquid. Garnett felt his body
become heavy. He no longer drew breath as he felt he had no need to.

The
alien closed his eyes for the first time and Garnett saw in his mind now. He
saw an older grey haired man walking amongst cows leading a young calf into a
barn. The old man was his son Danny. He saw an older woman; her hair died an
unnatural shade of brown, trying to mask the ever increasing wrinkles she bore
as she stood before a classroom full of young impressionable children. The
children watched in awe as she explained today’s lessons in grammar. Sadie, his
daughter would become a teacher after all. He saw an old woman sitting in a
rocker, knitting as she listened to the television. His wife Emma would outlive
him and her second husband as well and become a grandmother to four beautiful
children. He saw the milk cartons from his very own dairy cows with his picture
on them asking if anyone has seen this man.

Garnett McGraw.

Missing since May 19th 2014.

Reward offered for information that will
help find this man.

The
last thing he saw in his mind was his young son pick up the dimly lit
flashlight from the ground where he had dropped it when they took him.

The End

Thank you Pierre for that clever story. Watch next week as we continue with New Brunswick authors and Lockie Young returns to the Scribbler with one of his entertaining short stories.

Sunday, 9 August 2015

The South Branch Scribbler presents it's second guest in the New Brunswick authors series for August and September.

Chuck Bowie graduated from the University
of New Brunswick in Canada with a Bachelor Degree in Science. He lives on the
East Coast of Canada, an hour North and East of Maine. Growing up as an air
force brat, his writing is influenced by the study of human nature and how
people behave, habits he picked up as his family moved nineteen times in his
first twenty one years. Chuck loves food, wine, music and travel and all play a
role in his work.

His
writing will often draw upon elements of these experiences to round out his
characters and plotlines. Chuck is involved in the world of music, supporting
local musicians, occasionally playing with them and always celebrating their
successes. Because he enjoys venting as much as the next fellow, Chuck will at
times share his thoughts with a brief essay, some of which can be found on his
website. http://chuckbowie.ca

He is working through the fourth novel in
the suspense-thriller series: Donovan: Thief
For Hire. His newest is entitled Steal
It All, and follows Three Wrongs
and AMACAT. He is now writing the
fourth, as-yet untitled.

Chuck is married, with two adult musician
sons. He and his wife Lois live in Fredericton, New Brunswick.

A single track of sunshine elbowed its way through the crack
in the curtains, creating a warming sundial effect on the pickled hardwood
cottage floor. Peggyand John Whiteway awoke to their perfect Prince Edward
Island morning. Johntried to offer up a ‘Good morning darling,’ but the ensuing
crackle of his voicemade him pause and change the greeting to an accusation:
‘You got me drunk lastnight!’ He couldn’t muster the requisite indignity so the
words became just…words. Instead, he peeked inside the coverlet and silently
thanked his wife foragreeing to his ‘no pajamas’ rule while on vacation.

The shower was splendid. He loved a
long, lingering shower—he was averaging two a day this week in an effort to keep the beach
salt off. And theowners of the property, bless ‘em, had dropped off another
wicker basket with acarafe of coffee, fresh croissants, and a map to a different
island destination. They had done so every morning so far; he had casually mentioned
it to a neighboringcottager and thus knew it was a perk the folks next door
didn’t receive, whichmade the treat even sweeter. It was the best vacation John
had ever had. There’s something special about the simple pleasures.

“Honey, don’t knock the simple
pleasures,” he called out over the spray of steaming water.

In the background the cell phone
was jacked up on the docking station. It was The Hold Steady, playing Barely Breathing. Her son Aaron had
loaded up Peggy’s phone with songs before they left. A bit of a downer song,
although he loved it, just not first thing in the morning.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Turn that crap
off.”

In reply, she entered the bathroom
and flushed the toilet, leaving without saying a word. He stepped to the far end of the shower to
escape the rush of cold water, smiling as the song continued to amplify through the
wall.

John ate the last almond paste
croissant while Peggy showered. Afterward they tidied up the place. The cottage was located north of
Charlottetown, in what he called the artsy-beachy area. It was their second straight
summer at Brackley Beach, the second of many, he hoped. The loft was fairly
tidy so it took but a moment to pick up the pair of wine bottles and the pillows
he and Peggy had reclined upon in front of the enormous floor-to-ceiling
windows the evening before.

On the main floor the dishes were
already in the sink—”I promise I’ll do them when we get back, Pegs.”—so they had merely to get set
up for the day. He’d loaded the back pack; found that errant pair of sunglasses,
argued good-naturedly about the need for four bottles of water and the relative
merits of Vans runners versus sandals, and off they went to explore the beach. The
giant red dunes in the nearby national park were their destination this morning.

They turned off the main highway
about a mile before the national park gates. Peggy couldn’t pass the Owl’s Retreat art gallery without
stopping, so she tugged at John’s shirt the moment she spied the shop sign. John
parked the Prius and headed straight for the smaller door to the left of the main
entrance. It led to the little café on the side of the gallery and he grabbed his
third coffee of the morning.

While Peggy wandered off to the koi
ponds and garden at the back of the gallery, John stood in front of the framed heron that had
caught their eye earlier in the week. He debated whether the pleasure they would derive
from looking at it long after their vacation would be worth the bother of
lugging it onto the plane back to Minnesota. Peggy sauntered back and asked him if he
wanted to buy it.

Then, as couples will, they
discussed whether the convenience of buying it now (and worrying about it possibly getting stolen from their
trunk later in the day) outweighed the bother of stopping by the gallery at the end
of the day. It was, as Pegs noted, a good five minutes out of their way, since they
were coming back from a different direction that evening. Ten minutes,
actually, if you counted both ways, which she obviously did.

John could tell she didn’t really
care what the decision was, but if he didn’t make a decision soon, the banter would degenerate into
bickering, and he didn’t want to go there. So he pretended to care and told her he
really wanted to buy it now. He was pleased when she said “Up to you, babes.”
Problem solved. A bubble-wrapped minute later and the trundled parcel was safe
in the trunk, sitting beside the back pack with the water, extra T-shirt sneakers,
a couple of murder mysteries, towels, and a wrap for Peggy’s hips in case they
ate at a fancier restaurant for lunch. Pegs was becoming a bit self-conscious
about the extra couple of pounds she had put on this past year. John couldn’t see
it but Pegs assured him they were right there, the bastards. She brought the wrap
even on the hottest days. Just in case.

Inside the park they pulled over on
the water side of the road, closest to the dunes that were the star of this recreation area. The
weather was unfolding perfectly so they expected to meet people on the dunes or at
least on the beach. Initially, however, they were alone.

“Score!” said Pegs.

John was glad they had worn
sandals. The couple had mounted the thirty-foot rise of loose red dunes only to find a higher, more
impressive set. They dropped into the swale between the two sandy ridges, and then rose
back up to view the water through the lens of an amazing island morning. As a
kid in the lackadaisical sixties he had been given a jar of liquid mercury no child
today would be allowed near. The sensation of sinking his bare toes into the
night-chilled sand that morning felt just like when he had stuck his bare finger into that
cold, dense liquid.

The sun had risen well past the top
of the dunes on their left but still cast long shadows across the leeward side of the empty beach. A minute
earlier the night chilled sand from the shaded part felt like a cool liquid. Now the
sun-warmed sand felt like a different material altogether.

The beach stretched on and on in
both directions. They could see a few families far off in the distance, but otherwise they were
alone with two miles of beautiful red-sandy playground. He pointed to the families
in the distance.

“Sorry, Baby-cakes; no nude
sunbathing this morning.”

“Yeah, like that was going to
happen.”

Once again John smiled as she
patted him on the shoulder. It was a great day.

“Okay. Enough with the climbing. Let’s go down there and
make sand castles and solve mysteries. Did you bring a good book?”

He took her hand and led her down
the water side of the dunes, red sugar-sand feeling like a cool silk on his ankles where the sun hadn’t
yet got to it, and they strode onto the best beach in Canada.

John stopped at the base of the
dunes to study the marram grass that had been planted to reduce the erosion. Peggy took the backpack and
went on ahead to pick a spot on the sand between the ever-shortening morning
shadows and the water. He took the lens cap off his Nikon and bent down to take a few
photos; this grass would be a beautiful border for his garden back in St. Paul.
Surely the garden shops back home had a non-marine version of this.

He thought
of that quote: ‘God gave us memory that we may have roses in December.’ “Or
marine grass from Canada in Minnesota,” he muttered.

Something made him look up, to
where Peggy was standing. She had headed down to the water’s edge having dropped the backpack a few
feet behind her. Something had caught her attention. A peevish thought
entered his head, disturbing his unclouded mood: If we sit that close to the water this
early in the day, it might be a little too breezy. Why doesn’t she just come back
halfway up the beach? It would be warmer, offer softer sand and the dunes would keep
us out of the breeze.

As if in reply, Pegs screamed. It
began as a wail, but she obviously felt only her best effort would do under these circumstances and her
voice went up a few decibels and a few notes. A half a mile downwind the little
boy and girl turned their heads in one motion and stared up the beach, at his
wife. John began to run.

* * * *

“Dammit, this is why I came to Canada, to get away from this
shit.”

John refused the invitation to sit and paced the great room
of his cottage, eyes glued to the floor.

“If I wanted murders and,
and…mayhem, I’d have stayed home!”

His eyes finally rose up to meet the RCMP officer in charge
of Queens County, Prince Edward Island.

“Because believe me when I tell ya,
we got m-murders back home. I don’t need ‘em following me on vacation!”

John’s voice was rising, uneven and
his face was blotchy and red.

“Shut up, honey.” Peggy had gotten
control and was now unexpectedly calm.

“There’s not a lot we can do about…”

John stopped to glare, looking but
not seeing. He raised the palm of a soft hand as if to halt any interruptions.

“…Because I expect to dig my
god-damned toes in the sand and not dig up bodies with ‘em. Especially bodies that I recognize! What the
hell is this? Detroit?

No, it’s supposed to be this gentle storybook place…”

At this point John ran out of
steam. Peggy leaned forward without getting up and patted John on the back of his bare calf. After standing patiently for
several minutes, acknowledging his witness’ need to vent away a little of his shock and, yes, fear, Inspector
Ian MacIsaac stepped forward and took control of the discussion. He glanced at
his notepad and began.

“Mister and Missus Whiteway, is it?
I’m going to tell you my understanding of what transpired, and you can stop me if I make any errors in
what took place, when it happened or your observations during the course of your
morning. Now, I would ask you to jump in if anything, anything at all is different
from your impression of what happened. John, I really appreciate your cooperation in
this matter and I am truly, truly sorry for this, ah, interruption of your
holiday.”

The Inspector took a deep breath.
“Shall we begin?”

He pointed to a nearby teak chair
into which John reluctantly sunk, and the Inspector followed suit by dropping his bulk into the mate
of John’s chair. He started to speak but something out of the corner of his eye
caught his attention. He looked over to John’s wife.

Peggy had raised a tentative finger
as if she was pointing crookedly at the teak and wicker fan above them. She began, faltered then started
again in a hesitant voice, all the while smoothing her shorts with the flat of her
hands.

“I…I was wondering if we saw who,
who we saw. Was it…?”

Inspector MacIsaac gave her a look
as if to ask why it really mattered who the body had been before being murdered. But he merely offered
that when the red beach sand was pushed away from the rest of the victim’s
face and naked body, it did indeed look like the Hollywood actress Nadia Kriss, but
that he couldn’t possibly confirm or speculate who in fact the woman was. He
then leaned forward, rested an elbow on one knee and from his notes proceeded to
tell the story of how Mister and Missus Whiteway from St. Paul, Minnesota walked
straight into the shit on what up until that moment had been a perfect Prince
Edward Island vacation day.

Thank you Chuck for sharing the beginning of what will be a marvelous tale. Buy Amacat here .

Next week in the series of New Brunswick Authors, you can meet Pierre Arseneault of Moncton.

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Somewhere in New Brunswick. Photo by France Duguay.

Allan Hudson

About Me

I started writing later in life, inspired by one of my favorite authors, Bryce Courtenay, who began his writing career in his mid-fifties. It has been one of my most rewarding pastimes. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. It started with Dick & Jane – a primary reader my mother brought home from her work – she was a school teacher and taught me to read at an early age.

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5 Star review for Shattered Figurine

The opening chapter presents the detective, Jo Naylor, with a very important question. One she didn’t really want to answer but knows she must.

The next chapter, one year later, hits you square in the face with full on complicated and violent action as we discover what this story is all about.

Shattered Figurines is a surprisingly unusual detective story in that it doesn’t follow the usual plotline for this genre and the characters aren’t run of the mill either. The author has captured a very real element in both the story and the characters and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

I love a good detective mystery story and Shattered Figurines is one of the best I have read this year. I shall be first in the queue when the author writes another one in this series.

Shattered Figurine - a novella - Available Now!

Shattered Figurine. She sold it at a yard sale four years ago, when she was thirty-seven, and she remembers who bought it. She hadn’t given it a thought since then. In her mind, there had been no reason to. The message this morning changed that. She can’t ignore the possibility, no matter how horrific it seems. She prays silently that she be proven wrong" Click on the photo to read a brief excerpt. Thank you for your support.

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Review of Wall of War

Dark Side of a Promise

Drake Alexander Adventure - Book 1. I'm pleased to announce the first two novels in the Drake Alexander Adventures are now available as an eBook at the following outlets. Kobo, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Baker & Taylor, Playster, Book2read, Bibliotheca, Overdrive, Tolino, Scribd, 24 Symbols & Amazon. Soon to be available at other booksellers.

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Wall of War and Dark Side of a Promise is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Published in 2018 in A Box of Memories, a collection of delightful and entertaining short stories.